


Burning Love

by gestures_incoherently



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bartender!Osamu, Blow Jobs, Body Shots, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:09:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28119708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gestures_incoherently/pseuds/gestures_incoherently
Summary: Suna leans in. “Correct me if I’m wrong, shots fall under that umbrella, right?”“I suppose ya could say that.”“Then shouldn’t body shots be in your repertoire, too?”Osamu looks at him like he’s weighing his options. Keep playing along or end this before it goes too far. Suna is content either way, of course, but he sure is hoping for the former.“Never thought of it that way. Guess I ought to take that into consideration.”Suna smiles. The former it is.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 6
Kudos: 119
Collections: Bartender Osamu, SunaOsa





	Burning Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spiritscript](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiritscript/gifts).



> *Blows kiss to the sky* for the bartender!Osamu agenda.
> 
> Alt title: shots shots shots shots every BODY

With the official start of the off season, Suna packs up a bag, waves goodbye to the city and heads out for a much deserved vacation in Osaka.

He arrives with a list of recommendations of Komori that he couldn’t even dream of finishing in the short three day stay he has ahead of him. He scans the list, picks a bar at random, and heads out for the night. 

“What can I get for ya?” 

Oh. 

The bartender is tall, broad shouldered, and all muscle if the tee-shirt straining to stretch across his chest is anything to go by. Suna wasn’t hungry before but he is now. 

“Vodka tonic.” 

The bartender smiles. “Comin’ right up.” 

He’ll have to remember to thank Komori later. 

The Suna’s delight, the bartender wipes down the bar for the second time since he sat down. Suna definitely does not stare at the bartender’s toned arms and chest straining against the black jersey tee-shirt with every stroke of the rag against the wood bar. 

Suna swirls the vodka tonic in his hand. The ice clinks. “Tell me, Mr. Bartender, have _you_ ever done a body shot?” 

The bartender, to his credit, doesn’t look perturbed in the slightest, expression giving away nothing. Suna wonders how much bullshit he’s put up with to develop that kind of poker face. He wonders what it will take to _crack_ it. 

“I can’t say that I have. And the name‘s Osamu.” 

_Osamu_. A grin tugs at the corners of Suna’s lips. Interesting. 

“Mr. Bartender is my father’s name.” 

Hmm. Hot _and_ a dumbass. More interesting. 

Osamu returns to wiping down the bar, humming a tune Suna can’t quite place. Suna swirls his glass, leans back, and watches the show. 

An hour later and Suna hasn’t left his stool. He _has_ learned a lot more about Mr. Bar- Osamu- though. He’s been a bartender for a little over a year. It’s a side gig while he finishes up a few business classes and starts up his own restaurant, an onigiri shop. 

Hot. A dumbass. _And_ motivated. In other words, he’s just Suna’s type. 

“So,” Suna says, dragging out the sound. “As a bartender, aren’t you supposed to be experienced in all things cocktails and drinks?”

Osamu looks at Suna like he knows all about what he’s up to. It makes it all the more satisfying when he answers anyway. 

“Yep.” 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, shots fall under that umbrella, right?” 

“I suppose ya could say that.” 

“Then shouldn’t body shots be in your repertoire, too?”

Osamu looks at him like he’s weighing his options. Keep playing along or end this before it goes too far. Suna is content either way, of course, but he sure is hoping for the former. 

“Never thought of it that way. Guess I ought to take that into consideration.” 

Suna smiles. The former it is. 

Osamu spends his meager 15-minute break sitting on the stool next to Suna. Suna takes a moment, taking inventory of the situation, memorizing it all.

There’s the glass, cold and dripping from the condensation clutched in his hand. There’s the fire pooling in his gut the longer Osamu looks at him like _that._ But even the flames licking at his insides, filling up his stomach and chest until surely he _is going to burst,_ can’t hold a candle to the feeling of Osamu's hand resting on his thigh. 

He vows right then and there that he _will_ do a body shot off this man if it is the last thing he ever does. 

The night’s winding down, the bar nearly ready to close. And Suna hasn’t moved an inch, spending most of the night staring unabashedly at Osamu. Every now and then Suna catches Osamu staring right back. Suna recognizes that look in his eyes. Hungry. Willing. Wanting. Neither of them is going home alone tonight. 

Osamu slams an empty glass onto the counter in front of Suna. “This one’s on the house.” He pours the clear liquid into the glass, carefully setting down the bottle when he’s done. He pushes it toward Suna. “Don’t drink it yet. I gotta get ya something else.” 

Suna peers at the glass as if he could tell the difference between the plethora of clear alcohols with just a look. 

Osamu returns, sets a salt shaker down on the bar, then hands Suna a lime wedge. 

“Are ya familiar with Mr. Jose Cuervo?” he asks with a grin.

Suna is more than familiar with tequila but admitting that wouldn’t be any fun.

“Is that gin?” 

“Don’t play dumb with me, Suna.” 

“Rintarou. Rin.” 

“Right, don’t play dumb with me, _Rin_. Mr. Cuervo ain’t gin and ya know it.” 

“Hmm,” Suna taps his chin. “Can’t say I know any Cuervos,” he leans in closer, into Osamu’s space. “Enlighten me?” 

“It would be my pleasure to introduce ya then.” He points to the glass. “There’s only one way to do a tequila shot. Shot glass in yer right hand, lime in the right.” 

Suna reaches for the glass but Osamu wraps a hand around his wrist stopping him. 

“And,” he reaches for the salt. “The salt goes on the back of yer hand. Salt-tequila-lime. It’s easy as 1-2-3.” 

Suna licks his lips. “The salt goes where?” 

Osamu’s lips quirk into a wicked grin. “That’s the best part.” 

“Oh?” 

“Ya gotta lick it. Then add the salt.” 

Suna likes this, the push and pull, the dance, the calm before the storm. Komori and Washio have made it their business to inform him that he’s nothing if not an enormous flirt. They’re not wrong and he’s not mad about it. He is a flirt. A shameless flirt. But it’s rare that he meets his match, someone who can go toe to toe with. Someone who can keep him on his toes and guessing just what will happen next. 

Suna hums. “Lick-salt-lick again-tequila-lime.” 

“Quick learner.” 

“Give me the salt.” He licks his hand like Osamu instructed, viscerally aware that Osamu’s eyes haven’t left him for so much as a second. Suna shakes the salt over the back of his hand then reaches for the tequila and the lime. 

This time, as his tongue drags across the back of his hand, Suna doesn’t look away from Osamu either. Then he brings the glass to his lips, throws his head back to drink before biting down on the sour lime. 

Suna swallows. “Delicious. I think Mr. Cuervo and I will get along just fine.” 

When Osamu asks him to come home with him at the end of the night, Suna doesn’t let him finish the sentence before he says yes. 

They fall through the door of Osamu’s apartment, stumbling over each other as they try to toe-off their shoes without letting go of the other. 

They don’t make it far before Suna is using every bit of the meager height difference between them to push Osamu up against the closest wall. 

Suna tugs at Osamu’s shirt until he gets the hint and lifts his arms. Suna maybe should have thought this through before wantonly ripping off the only thing separating Suna from the sight of Osamu’s tight and defined core. He runs his hands over the lithe muscle, mouths across Suna’s stomach, his hips. 

His mouth waters and he’s reminded of why he came here tonight. There’s a gap in Osamu’s bartending education that desperately needs to be filled. 

“Mr. Bartender,” he mumbles in between pressing sloppy open-mouthed kisses along Osamu’s jaw, neck, and chest. “Osamu.” 

Osamu groans. “Hmm?” 

“Liquor. Where is the liquor?” He sounds desperate. He doesn't care. 

Osamu leans back on his elbows, watching as Suna unscrews the top off the bottle of grape vodka. Laid across the bed like this, Osamu is pretty enough to eat and eat him, Suna will. 

“If it’s my education we're talkin’ about, shouldn't I be the one takin’ the shot off of you?” 

Suna hums. “We’ll get there. This isn’t for you. This is all for me.” 

The air crackles around them, anticipation making Suna’s hair stand on end. He rests a palm on Osamu’s chest, nudging until he collapses onto the bed fully. He takes a moment to drink in the sight before him. Osamu, the hottest bartender Suna has ever met, laid out before him, nearly naked and waiting for Suna. 

He crawls over Osamu’s mouthwatering form, carefully pouring the cool liquid over him before ducking his head and, _finally_ , taking the hottest shot of his life. 

Suna sits up, resting on his heels. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “Delicious.” 

Osamu grins, wild and wicked. He grips Suna’s hips, flipping them without warning so it’s Suna against the bed with Osamu straddling him. 

They still have their pants on and Suna is hyper-aware of this unfortunate fact with his dick straining against his tight jeans. He bucks his hips up, just a bit, groaning when it’s met with Osamu pressing back with the same vigor. 

“Pants,” he gasps. “Off.” 

Osamu shakes his head. “No, ‘s my turn now. You were adamant about it and I hafta agree, proper education is important.” He reaches for the vodka bottle, following the same motions as Suna had moments ago. Suna watches, rapt. Osamu’s lips are warm where the vodka is cold and as soon as Osamu lifts his head Suna wastes no time hauling him back up to pull him into a searing kiss. 

Want erupts in the pit of his stomach. He wants Osamu’s lips on him, on every part of him. He wants to be on top of Osamu, under Osamu, wants to fuck and be fucked by Osamu. 

“Fuck me,” he says, dropping all pretense. That’s what they’re here for. That’s what _he is_ here for. To fuck or be fucked by the hot bartender, Miya Osamu. Okay, that's a lie. He's here to do a _body shot_ off the hot-as-all-fuck bartender but that's all said and done. He can move onto bigger goals without feeling a lick of guilt. 

“Well aren’t ya a man of many words. Didn’t know I was bringin’ a poet home with me.” 

Suna bucks his hips but Osamu dances, _dances,_ out of the way.

“Asshole.” 

Osamu grins again, the one that lights a fire in Suna’s chest. “Ya like it though, don’t ya, Rin?” 

“Fuck you.” He’s right, of course. It's always hotter when the person he's with is just a big an asshole as Suna is himself. Makes the chase all the more fun and the catch all the sweeter. 

“Now that’s an idea,” Osamu says. Osamu ducks his head, kissing his way up Suna’s chest then neck and jaw. “I want ya to fuck me, Suna Rintarou but at the rate we're goin' now, I don't think I'm gonna last that long." 

Suna won't either if he's being honest with himself. 

"Do you have another suggestion?" Suna says. 

Osamu licks his lips. "One or two. I want ya in my mouth, wanna follow that grape vodka with a taste that is all you." 

This man, the gorgeous, hot man, is going to be the end of Suna Rintarou if he keeps looking at him like he’s almost too good to eat and saying things like _that._

Suna rakes a hand through Osamu’s hair and tugs, smiling when he’s rewarded with a breathy moan. “Are you going to say please?” Suna says. 

Osamu laughs. “I think you ought to be the one sayin’ that to me.” 

Suna can play that game. 

“Please,” he pulls Osamu close, nips at his ear. “Get on your knees,” Suna hooks his thumbs underneath the waistband of Osamu’s jeans. -and worship me.” He tugs until he can’t reach anymore and Osamu has to wiggle out of them on his own. “I’ll beg if I must."

Osamu yanks off Suna’s own pants, fucking finally. “I’m sure that’s a pretty sight. Ask me about that one later.” 

Suna flips them again then slides off the bed and onto his knees. 

He takes Osamu into his hand, breath ghosting over Osamu’s dick. He licks his lips and peers up at Osamu.

Suna takes Osamu into his mouth and is rewarded with the prettiest noise.

Suna takes a moment to adjust to the feeling of Osamu in his mouth. He wraps a hand around the base and experimentally begins to bob his head, mouth and hand going in tandem in shallow movements down its length.

Suna sinks down further, gradually increasing the pace and he peers up at him through his heavy-lidded eyes.

Osamu is different here in his apartment, being taken apart by Suna's mouth. He's lost the sharp angles and mystery aided by the atmosphere of the bar. Here he's gorgeous, watching Suna with an unrelenting ferocity and spouting an endless string of semi-coherent praise.

Suna picks up the pace and with his free hand rakes his nails down Osamu’s chest, over his toned stomach and thighs. 

“Rin. _Rin._ ‘m-I’m-”

He pulls off, lips slick with spit. “Mr. Bartender?”

“Rin, for the love of all that is good, do not call me Mr. Bartender when my dick was just in yer mouth.” 

Suna shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

"I'm not gonna last much longer. Are ya sure-" 

Suna cuts him off. "Good, that's the point. Can I?" he gestures vaguely. "Get back to it?" 

"Yes, oh my god, please." 

Suna takes him back into his mouth and sets an unrelenting pace, reveling in every gasp and groan that falls from Osamu's lips. 

Osamu moans. It’s both the dirtiest and the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. Suna wants to tell him how pretty he is like this with his mouth hanging open and eyes fixed only on Suna. 

He thinks he could probably come like this, with Osamu’s unrelenting gaze on him and Suna’s lips sliding over his dick.

Suna moans just thinking about it and that’s all it takes to push Osamu over the edge. He’s not just pretty, he's fucking gorgeous, with his eyes scrunched up and mouth twisted into a shout. Suna doesn’t let up until Osamu slumps back onto the bed, chest heaving and eyes dazed. 

Suna reaches down between his own legs and tugs on his own straining dick. Once. Twice. That's all it takes before he too slumps over, head pillowed onto one of Osamu's thick thighs and chest heaving. 

They lay there like that for a few moments before Suna lifts his head to look at Osamu. “Well?” 

Osamu hovers over Suna, caging him in with an arm braced on the bed on either side of his head. “I think I can consider myself educated. Yer an excellent teacher." 


End file.
